


If He Only Knew

by ChasingTheQuill



Category: Luke Cage (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Queer Character of Color, Canon Queer Relationship, Idiots in Love, M/M, Other, POV Alternating, Pining, Unresolved Tension, shadyche
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 11:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15242649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChasingTheQuill/pseuds/ChasingTheQuill
Summary: In one buzzing moment, his body feels open to me, and he is entirely mine...





	If He Only Knew

**Author's Note:**

> Dear readers,  
> So, Shades and Comanche… sigh. _That_ happened. Still, I am glad _they_ happened.  
>  My rambling feels about these two resulted in this head-hopping piece.  
> Thanks for reading.

 

**I.  “See ya in the mornin…”**

There is one thing I know for damn sure – I am done bending over for any old fucked up, twisted definition of who I am supposed to be.  It is just that simple.  What I feel now is a steady current of rage where a crippling fear used to be. Prison is a mix of cruel insights, warped confidence and barefaced lies.  It forces you into a mental/emotional straitjacket which will either completely break you, or make you fluid enough to seep into the cracks.  The moment you tell yourself you are fluid, you can begin to breathe again and lean on the fact that water bears no scars.  Today, I am on this side of the grave, on this side of Seagate, and I know I am a survivor.  The kid who was locked up is not the grown man who has emerged.  I’m out.  Shit will be different this time. 

  -.-.-

Haven’t seen my mama in god knows how long, but the minute she sets eyes on me, she senses this shift in me, sees something stubborn in my eyes.  She’s got a tongue like a razor and I’m sure all she cares about right now is that I was dumb enough to land my sorry ass in jail in the first place.  I ready myself for an earful, but this time around, a smile reaches her eyes as she asks me to sit down to supper.  She feeds me her latest gossip and pointedly avoids any talk of Seagate.  I tell her that these past months, I’ve been toying with notions of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and advanced stock trading and Niccolò Machiavelli’s _Art of War_.  “I’m using them brains you gave me, Ma.  Regular chip off the ole block, me…” I say it with a coy smile.  She feigns a frown at the flattery and watches me with careful eyes.  In the end, she spoons more fried rice onto my plate and shakes her head.  “Boy, please!  Talkin bout stocks.  And Nico- _what?_ ”  We both laugh until the tension breaks. 

It is only a matter of time before she brings up Hernan’s name, and truth is, I go rigid with stifled anticipation.  She demands to know what kind of plans we got cooking.  Haven’t seen him since I got out.  I offer up nothing.  She gives me one of her _enlighten-me_ looks and waits for an answer.  I keep my eyes fixed on the loaded plate before me and proceed to stuff my face with chicken fried rice; she finally takes the hint.

  -.-.-

“Che, my man!  Been waitin on you, kid... I got you. Now you out, nothing can fuckin stop us.” On the phone with him, and his voice is as steel-tempered as ever.  His words are crowded with promises and possibilities, and my gut does an embarrassing flip at the sound of his voice. Been out a few days now – my shoulders feel lighter, my hunger is bottomless, and I’m carefree with words.  I crack a dirty inside joke and hear him respond with that light, breathy laugh I’ve heard many times before.  I picture those crinkles around his eyes and imagine him dropping his gaze as he laughs into the phone pressed to his ear. 

“A’ight, B. See ya in the mornin. Can’t hardly wait.” I catch the husky note in my voice a little too late and try to cover it up with a careless laugh. We fall into silence; he exhales into it, we both say nothing and linger for a good ten seconds before he hangs up.

  -.-.-

Hernan is standing outside Graham Court, looking slick, shades tight, suit dope, classy and untouchable. I spot him half a block away and understand all over again why no one else could ever fucking compare.  Got little sleep last night mulling over this very moment, and now, my heart begins a steady jackhammer thump against my ribs.  Feels like I’m walking on air.  I know his eyes are looking me up and down from behind those dark glasses, discretely checking me out.  The heat of that gaze floods my senses.  Been working out hard these past months, got myself a few more tattoos I know he will spot the second he gets a closer look.

When he wraps his arms around me and pumps his fists into my back, I pull him into my chest and cling to him hard.  He remembers.  In one buzzing moment, his body feels open to me, and he is entirely mine.  He smells like suave designer heat, though not the fleeting kind. I very nearly press a kiss into the soft smoothness of his neck, right on that spot below his right ear where I’ve buried hurried, desperate dreams in the past.  He remembers.  But we are out here in the brutal wide open and false courage comes like second nature.  Pulse running high and electric in my throat, yet before I know I’m doing it, I push it back and smother it with expert ease.  I fall in step with that taut rhythm that sways in tandem with his.

I catch him looking every so often.  I lean into it and mirror his stares, until he feels obliged to just smile and look away.

 

 

**II.  “Too little, too late…”**

The last time they say their goodbyes at Seagate, Hernan is wound tight with a burrowing sense of loneliness and longing that grips him fast in the gut.  They have said everything there is to be said, which is too little and too late, and a lingering emptiness gnaws inside him.  He has Comanche pressed into the wall behind his bunk, breaths rasping, foreheads and bodies flush, rough hands kneading under Che’s shirt.  Comanche seizes Hernan’s lips and pries his mouth open with his tongue.  His hands slip underneath Hernan’s waistband and palm the swell of his bare ass.  “I need to be inside you,” Che crams the words into Hernan’s neck and sucks on the straining flesh until they are both winded and grasping for air.  In the past, whenever they were overcome with this desperate, deep-sown hunger, whenever their trysts got too heated too quickly, Hernan would clamp down on his lust and slow Che down with him.  They would rake over raw nerve endings and pretend they had all the time in the world.  This would last for a few short moments before things got urgent and possessive again, and they would end up fucking fast and frantic like it would be their one last opportunity.

On this last morning, Hernan does not attempt to slow things down.  He is slipping fast and his control already teeters on the edge.  He sucks on Che’s bottom lip and tongue, before reaching down and pumping his lover’s cock until Che is arching and grinding and coming into his closed fist.  There isn’t really much time left over for words.  When Che’s pulse finally settles down some, he slides down to his knees and tugs Hernan’s boxers low on his hips.  Hernan is already gripping the back of Che’s head and guiding his lips to his erection.  Head thrown back, mouth agape, Hernan rocks his hips into Che’s face until his entire body convulses and peaks in a ripping tide of pleasure.  It is the crack of dawn, they are wired beyond reason, and if anyone hears their suppressed grunts and moans, they know better than to utter a word.  They cling together, breaths hoarse, until Che turns Hernan around, grips his hips and grinds into him, hard and rough, until he is dizzy and erupting again.

“The fuck will I do in here without you…?” Che’s lips are buried in Hernan’s neck again, and his voice cracks, “...the fuck do I do?”

Hernan memorizes the kiss they share afterward – it tastes of sex and hunger and them and, unlike the frenzied lust they’d just unleashed, it is tender and deep and ends with him gasping into his lover’s ear, “I would fuckin die for you, Che.”

  -.-.-

Hernan comes back to the memory of that morning like it has a ticking shelf-life (which means more times than he can count). He wakes up on a handful of days, heart pounding and rigid from the vivid memory of Che's fingers on his skin.  Every time he dusts off that particular morning, he slows down their pace, grips his best friend a little harder... and stretches out their lust until they are thoroughly blissed out.  

Some weeks after that morning, they are on the phone together and Che's voice is raw, labored and needy..."fuck. I miss you, B".  Hernan's heart skyrockets... and cracks open all over again.

 

 

**III.  “Zero-sum game…”**

I did not expect Hernan to be a monk after he got out; far from it.  In my place, he would not ask it of me, and I certainly didn’t expect him to keep his dick to himself the entire time.  We never discussed any expectations or the fine implications of what we were doing – when we were inside, things just naturally fell into place.  I trusted him with my life, and we didn’t need to deliberate every tiny detail.  He had my back, I had his, simple as that.  The first time we fucked, it was the most intense, most natural thing we had done in years (and we did nearly every-fuckin-thing together) – shit did not get weird or awkward or complicated between us afterward, though neither of us could ignore the undeniably mind-blowing magnitude of that particular experience.  We didn’t have to sit down and pick apart our feelings in order to spell out how much it meant to us or how much we craved it.  We were worn and hungry and insatiable.  And although I never told him just how much he’d flipped my life on its head, he always knew I was all about him, anytime, anywhere… would do anything for him. 

Like I said, when I got out, I knew there might be someone, but I’m not prepared for the sucker punch to the gut that is seeing him with that woman.  Watching her draped all over him and sucking on his fingers in public… standing outside her office door like an obedient lapdog and listening to him fuck her senseless on her desk… standing there, guarding all their clingy hugs and kisses..

I tell myself it is a shallow intimacy – that he is using sex to get going where he needs to be.  I tell myself that at least, he isn’t getting his nut off with some young, hung stud I would want to strangle.  I tell myself that she knows all about me, knows what I am to him, otherwise she wouldn’t be so blatantly pissy with me at every turn.  I tell myself there is way too much history between us – it is furious and thick and rock-solid – and there's no way it crashes and burns now.  But.  He’s wrapped around her little finger and way too close to see shit.  If the cops can take her down before she fucks up and drags him down with her, I may eventually forgive myself for doing this shit behind his back. 

  -.-.-

We are chilling at his crib the other night, just the two of us; stereo bumping, and we get into some delectable Irish whiskey.  He’s relaxed and stretched out on the sofa, his head is practically in my lap.  He is chill – shades off, easy smile on his lips, protective armor gone, Run DMC t-shirt and faded jeans on – and he is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.   The buzz I’m feeling is primed and spring-loaded, and I’m ready to spill all this shit bubbling over in my chest; almost brave enough to lower my lips onto his, open him up and remind him.  Maybe he reads my mind, maybe not; but he starts rhapsodizing about Mariah Dillard like she’s sun and moon and everything he’s not.  I get salty;  I get right on the verge of telling him to stop candying a rotten apple… but his head is pressed into my thigh and I’m using up my last resolve to keep from going rock hard.  He talks like he’s in love, and I listen for now ‘cause I’m high off him lying here like this and this smooth whiskey.  Before long, he crawls off the couch, shuts off the music and disappears into his bedroom.  He doesn't close the door behind him.  I imagine him peeling his clothes off in the dark, one by one, before slipping into that king-sized bed of his.  Everything is quiet, except my stuttering imagination.  I contemplate going in there after him and sliding into that bed next to him.  Will he open up his arms or shrink from my touch?  Turns out I don’t have the brass neck to find out, ‘cause I stretch out where he was reclined and wonder if he’s lying in there wide awake thinking of her, or imagining all the ways I could be taking care of him right about now.

  -.-.-

The heat radiates off him.  He is nice and close and facing the other way when he reaches in and wrenches my heart.  His words fall like lead, “Inside was inside…”  The perfect silence breaks down some of the red roaring in my head.  He denies the past and exposes my insecurities with one blow.  For once, I don’t give in to that familiar, slow-creeping doubt.  I re-arrange this ache into words I can leave in his lap, _"...I am who I am, B"_.  He takes it all in, breaks my fucking heart and then does his best to wipe away some of the sting.  I can’t shake the feeling that something tried and trusted between us has cracked beyond reason; but even in that moment, I manage to catch and hold a glimpse of my own strength.  His walls have gone up and I’ve been put in my place.  I could walk away now, but it’s too late.  Too late because I heard that quake in his voice, and it gave him away.

_I would die for you too, B._

 

 

**IV.  “No going back from this…”**

up morning and night with you in my chest…sleep far gone…my head splitting and spinning in an endless loop…we knew the rules of the game all too well…if you was in my place, I'd expect no less from you…you sold out and I fucking saw red…still, never could’ve prepared myself for all that blood oozing and drying on your chest…or the look in your mama’s eyes when she found out…or the nightmares… blind trust shattered beyond recognition… still, this is what we do…I own this now…no amount of tears or reminiscing or reasoning can fix this shit…still...in the end, you were right…about her...about the entire shitshow going right to hell...about me...you once told me we were two faces of the same coin...I laughed when you said that…kept that shit in my back pocket…forgot all about it...but you were right...you must be laughing your face off now bruh…coz guess what…there’s one more thing we have in common…I sold out too

  -.-.-

the other night you dropped some quote you said was Machiavelli…twice… _“Everyone sees what you appear to be, few really know what you are”_ …I barely gave it a second thought then…chalked it up to that irish whiskey we’d been swilling all night long…was wide awake last night, pondering our last words…looked up the bit of it I could remember…the guy was talking about how to be a skilled pretender…how to fool the suckers around you to see precisely what you want them to see…how to be one you with a few…and another you with the rest…the significance of appearances…shit got me going…who were you talking about, you or me?...more loose threads to pick at…I want to go back to that night…to that conversation and pay closer attention to you…and your rambling

  -.-.-

slipping through your fingers…this is life without you now...I’m either feeling too little or too much…or nothing at all…sliding head first into borrowed time...panic holding me up like cold skin…hungry now for all those treasures I neither disowned nor properly claimed…heart out of rhythm…they piling up

…age 8…fresh air fund…you were learning to swim that summer…you were so fucking petrified in the water…but that was one thing I actually knew how to do…stayed in the water with you while you splashed about, terrified of drowning…for once, I felt like I actually had your back…like you felt a little safe just by looking at me…you survived…by end of summer, you were kicking about in the water like you were part fish

…when we were 13 you started ‘going steady’ with what’s her face…you called her round-ass Rosie...barely saw you for two whole weeks…got so miserable, so wound up I actually felt physically sick…neither of us knew jackshit about girls…or how to properly chat one up…but there you were at it, plus she was 2 years older…got so fucking upset at your obvious betrayal…swore we were done for good…my mama was always gone back then, working three jobs and foolish hours…truth is, I was in rough shape…crazy insecure, but mostly blind with anger…we went another week without speaking, until you showed up at my house late one afternoon…stolen pack of cigarettes and some tattered sex magazine stashed in your backpack...you tried your best to make me laugh…you failed…you told me you’d dumped Rosie on her round ass…I managed a smile…“but mostly, I really just fuckin missed your lame ass,” you said…your words hit like a shot of adrenaline…my anger lasted maybe an hour tops…all these years later, I still go back to that day…the high charge intensity of it…rage, then blinding relief, laughter…then raging arousal…we flipped through that mag, studied every single sordid naked detail…ended up whacking off together on my bed…our eyes locked together…first time…broken inhibitions…another one of them no-going-back-from-this moments with you

…and remember those Top Gun shades?...how could we ever forget…they were dope but they weren’t that dope…they were everything coz you nearly got your ass skinned so I could keep them…that feeling like we could take on anything together…that spiraling high…that kind of cast-iron certainty…that was why being Shades was dope

…all those nights in Seagate…pressed into each other like magnets…prison was only the stepping stone that got us there…I know what I said…been thinking nonstop about that night…you and me at Pop’s...a meeting place of tentative confessions...Pop's is Switzerland for a reason...anyway, I heard it in your voice, raw and fearless…truth like a blade I was too chickenshit to handle…you got my blood racing…I knew you saw right through my deflecting...you always have...yes you were right, again…I wanted it…I wanted you...harder than I ever wanted anything…I loved you even before my voice broke...you are ground zero, and there’s really no Shades, whoever the fuck that is these days, without you...you were my first in more ways than I can count…first reason to actually lift my head up…first person to fight and get his ass kicked for me…it was a mystery to me what you saw in me when most people saw trash…your mama was hard on you but she had a soft spot for me...she scolded me, threatened to beat my ass a few times…but she treated me like kin…like I was one of her own wayward sons...you both chose to see Hernan

woke up with a jump last night…echoes of an old man screaming, burning alive…it takes some wrestling but I blot that out…soon I am back in the neighborhood again…back to knowing about ten words in english…brought you back to our apartment and for a change, my mama sees my face and lights up…says, tell me about your new friend…couldn’t explain it…I had too much and too little to tell her...we could barely communicate…your spanish sucked harder than my english…still, much to everyone's surprise, we were inseparable…you smiled a lot in those days, bright eyes and tough-talking confidence.  
I wanted to be you.

 


End file.
